


Three Days, Three Months.

by SH_ARidiculousMan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-The Final Problem, Season/Series 04 Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10161098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SH_ARidiculousMan/pseuds/SH_ARidiculousMan
Summary: It’s been three months since that day at Sherrinford. It’s been even longer, obviously, since the day at the aquarium, and somewhere in between fell that day in the morgue.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Inspired by this post by gallifreyan-detective on tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/271868) by gallifreyan-detective. 



It’s been three months since that day at Sherrinford. It’s been even longer, obviously, since the day at the aquarium, and somewhere in between fell that day in the morgue. Three days of nightmarish destruction; three months of careful repair. 

Rosie’s first birthday was marked with a quiet afternoon of bittersweet smiles and laughter. Just cake and a few friends around the table in the newly refurbished 221B, which feels more like home now for John, even though Rosie’s home with her mother was elsewhere. John tries not to think about this too much. It is what it is, he supposes.  
Greg and Mrs Hudson, Molly, and even Mycroft gather in the little kitchen – and while John wonders to himself if Mycroft’s presence was more for the cake than the celebration, he grudgingly acknowledges the positives of the new, tentative relationship that has been developing between the elder Holmes brother and his younger brother since that awful day. 

John finds himself slipping comfortably into the routine of being a single father. He works a few shifts each week at the clinic, hires a wonderful part-time nanny to watch Rosie, and strangely, finds himself starting to pack boxes in the evenings when Rosie has settled for the night. John doesn’t mention this odd activity to Ella in his weekly sessions. He tries not to think about this too much either, especially once he realises that it’s not just Mary’s belongings he’s boxing up for charity. His, he packs into separate boxes, slowly and methodically. 

John’s grief for Mary still lingers, of course. There’s no escaping, yet, from the raw and visceral waves of feeling that catch him unaware most days, when he’s looking at their daughter or walking through their house. John does allow himself to think about this, at Ella’s urging, and gradually his introspection leads him to accept the feeling of loss that just sits, quietly, at the back of his heart as he goes about his new, changed life. John realises, though, that the loneliness which engulfed him in that first time of loss in his life – those years after The Fall, as he refers to it in his head – well, that particular horrible, aching loneliness isn’t present this time. 

John tries not to think too much about why that is. Not yet, anyhow.

\--

Rosie is his joy, work is a pleasant distraction (he’s always loved being a doctor, banal complaints of sniffles and colds included; he’s always been a healer at heart). But as ever – as it always has been since the day when John walked into Bart’s with Mike Stamford – John finds his mind focussed all too often on the world’s only consulting detective, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. 

Before, John and Sherlock talked all the time. It’s always been a part of their dynamic – Sherlock bounces ideas off John, his non-stop thoughts running out of his mouth like a train barrelling down a track. John vents to Sherlock after a bad day, or chats about the mundane things in life that Sherlock never seemed to notice. In between their unpoetic monologues, the good-natured banter between them almost never stops.  
However, now – well, now their conversations are somewhat more considered. It’s not uncomfortable – John doesn’t think it could ever be uncomfortable between them, especially not with so much behind them (and, John thinks to himself, so much ahead). But there’s a quiet understanding that trust needs to be rebuilt, broken down by so much said and done in anger. There’s a slow consideration before words are spoken, and John thinks that before all this, he’d never seen Sherlock so prepared to be unapologetically open.

For all the brokenness that learning of Eurus’ existence wrought on Sherlock’s life, there’s no denying that she’s shaken away the clouds of his deluded self-diagnosis as an unfeeling sociopath. Intolerant of useless emotion, yes – but, John thinks that maybe Sherlock’s intolerance comes from fear, a fear of identifying so much emotion in his own otherwise rational self. This thought makes John smile, and something warm twists gently in the region of his chest.  
John considers that perhaps he’s never actually met anyone who feels as much as Sherlock does. He certainly doesn’t know of any sociopath who’d bring a broken family back together through gentle music in a stark, concrete room. He doesn’t know of any sociopath who’d take himself to the brink of existence to save another man from his grief. 

John has apologised, of course, for that day in the morgue. He’s apologised so many times, and while he’s still not sure he deserves forgiveness, he is convinced that finally, neither he nor Sherlock blame the detective for Mary’s death. He feels secure in the knowledge that Sherlock has forgiven him, and knows that Sherlock no longer believes that he deserved what he got from John. He works with Ella to learn strategies that will help him with controlling his anger, and he tells Sherlock about this. Sherlock nods, and holds his gaze. A piece of John’s soul that he didn’t even know was missing shifts back into place as he realises that this biggest wedge between them is gone, forever. 

Sometimes, at night, John chases a lingering train of thought that teases at the edges of his subconscious. He thinks of Mary trying to joke, in her last moments, that she was even with Sherlock now. A bullet for a bullet. His mind turns the words around, and in those dark moments, John suspects Mary’s split-second reasoning wasn’t as simple as all that. For all the silences and secrets in their marriage, Mary knew John Watson as well as almost anyone.  
John thinks of when he met her, in those years after The Fall, when he was lost and broken. Once, on a park bench, John had told Sherlock that two people had saved his life; but John knows, now, Mary recognised that the real saving of John Watson was not hers to claim.  
He thinks perhaps she understood that for John, their marriage wasn’t enough – that being Mary Watson had been everything for her, but it wasn’t going to be enough for him.  
John loves Mary for this, for understanding that he wasn’t the man she thought he was, but that, God, how he wanted to be. John loves Mary for knowing that he wouldn’t survive losing Sherlock Holmes again.  
In the dark, at night, John knows that his wife stepped in front of a bullet, to save a man that her husband loved so much more than he loved her. In the dark, at night, John makes his peace with his guilt. 

\--

There are still cases – although perhaps with a little less danger than before, John recognises. He doesn’t doubt that Sherlock is aware of his unspoken need to come home safe, to be there for Rosie. The warmth in John’s chest grows when he thinks of this.  
So yes, there’s still Sherlock sweeping dramatically out of the door on his way to a crime scene, John following at his heels with Mrs Hudson’s patient but pleased “Just this once, mind, I’m not your babysitter, dear!” echoing in his ears. There’s still the brilliance of Sherlock’s deductions, John’s genuine praise (“Amazing!”) falling out of his mouth with somehow more sincerity than ever before. John wouldn’t have thought more genuine praise was actually possible – but this subtle shift in their partnership means subtle shifts in so much more – and there it is. Maybe he’s just picking up on Sherlock’s deductive skills, but he thinks he notices a new and gentle smile, and maybe just a slight tinge of pink on those sharp cheekbones each time he delivers his admiration. John tries to think about this a lot (although he’s not quite sure why). 

There’s also, John notices, rather a lot more touching now between the detective and his blogger. Where before a hand on a shoulder was brisk and businesslike, now it lingers. Knees that once brushed briefly on cab rides stay pressed together. Fingers brush lightly across the small of a back when the pair enter a room, and the two take up a lot less room when they walk side by side on the pavement. This is something that John finds himself thinking about a lot – he tries not to question why, just enjoys the comfort that comes from contact with the one person who understands him most. It is what it is, and what it is, is good. 

The post-case adrenaline is redirected these days. Rather than excited shouts and giggles (“I don’t giggle, John!”) echoing through 221B, there’s settling Rosie in her porta-cot, and a quiet, shared whiskey in front of the fire. If it’s been a late night, John knows his bed upstairs is still waiting for him, and he’ll gratefully fall into it without invitation. 

It’s on a night like this, when the subtle shift between them moves just a little more, and John’s whole world tilts on its axis. (After, John thinks that maybe his axis was a little off-kilter anyhow.) 

\--  
The case was, comparatively, quite simple. A forger, a little blackmail, a coded message in the Lonely Hearts column. A perfect little riddle. The memory of the smile on Sherlock’s face as he delivered his deductions to Greg lingers in John’s mind on the cab ride home. 

John comes downstairs from settling Rosie, and walks into the kitchen, reaching for two tumblers and the rather fantastic bottle of Scotch that a recent client sent as a thank you. Sherlock slides onto the sofa, long legs stretching out languidly. John sits next to him, reaching for the TV remote and flicking it on as Sherlock pours the whiskey and wordlessly hands him a glass. Blue eyes flicker up to cautious grey as their fingers brush, and neither pulls away for perhaps a second too long. John settles against the back of the sofa, feels the warmth of his best friend next to him, and sips contentedly at his drink. 

On the TV, a hologram of the Tenth Doctor is standing on a lonely beach across from Rose. John hasn’t seen this episode in years, and he watches with casual interest. Wind whips Rose’s blonde hair across her face. “I can’t think of what to say!” she laughs sadly.  
Beside John, Sherlock freezes. John turns his head. “What is it?” he questions. Sherlock is quiet, staring at the screen. He tilts his chin towards John slightly, eyes still fixed ahead. He murmurs “Just…déjà vu. Of a sort. It’s nothing.”  
John glances back at the screen, puzzled. “I…I love you,” chokes out Rose, and John feels Sherlock deflate next to him, an audible, almost painful sigh escaping his mouth.  
John turns. Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on his glass, clasped in his hands between his knees. Déjà vu, John thinks. Surely a re-run of a sci-fi drama shouldn’t evoke such intense feelings from his friend, so it must be something else – a memory, perhaps? John feels bemused. He moves his eyes up to look at Sherlock’s face – defeated, almost, in its set. A memory – but when would Sherlock have been in a situation like this? When would he have had to say goodbye…oh. 

John breathes in sharply. A memory plays in his mind’s eye, two men standing on a runway. The words replay themselves, even though it’s been more than a year.  
“Actually, I can’t think of a single thing to say.”  
“No, neither can I.”  
Oh, Sherlock. The warmth in John’s chest turns sharp, burning. How many times has Sherlock thought of those words to recognise a parallel so instantly when he hears it? And…why?  
The memory in John’s mind is swept away, replaced by the almost audible sound of pieces falling into place. He closes his eyes, amazed that he hasn’t figured it out before now. John breathes in slowly, then opens his eyes and reaches out his hand. 

“Sherlock. It’s okay. It’s all okay.” John’s hand settles on Sherlock’s leg as he speaks. Sherlock’s eyes move to look at it, and then he breathes out, looking up at John. In his eyes, John sees fear, but behind that he thinks – he hopes – he sees something else.  
The man who can figure everything out doesn’t seem to understand. “What’s OK, John?” he asks, and John thinks he hears the barest hint of a sob at the back of Sherlock’s throat. Instinctively, he moves his hand, seeking to comfort, sweeping his thumb across Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock breathes in deeply, almost a shudder, and drops his eyes to the floor.  
“Look at me, please,” John says, and takes a deep breath in as Sherlock, for once, does what he’s been asked.  
“This, Sherlock,” says John. “This, this is all okay. You and me. What’s happening here. It’s all okay. I know you…well. I know how I….oh, sod it!” He breathes in deeply again, and forges ahead. “We couldn’t say it that day on the runway…”  
At this, Sherlock starts and looks almost wonderingly at John. “John Watson,” he interrupts, the fear in his eyes nearly chased away by something that might almost be laughter, “did you actually just deduce my thoughts?!”  
John laughs, and the warmth in his chest feels as if it could warm all of London. He doesn’t think it’s the whiskey. “Oh, Sherlock. Yes, it certainly seems that I did. But let me finish. I…I have to finish this.” 

Sherlock nods. He places his whisky tumbler on the coffee table, and John realises that at some point, he’s done the same. He runs his free hand through his hair, takes a final fortifying breath, and meets the gaze of his best friend. “Sherlock Holmes, I bloody well love you. You’re amazing and brilliant and you have saved my life time and again. You’re my best friend, my family, and if I may quote the best wedding speech I’ve ever heard – it’s always been you. You keep me right.”

As he speaks, John sees the look of wonder on Sherlock’s face intensify. In the back of his mind, he thinks that perhaps he might just be one of the only people to so thoroughly surprise the brilliant detective. However, that thought doesn’t have the opportunity to take flight, because John Watson suddenly finds his hands being gripped by long slender fingers.  
“Plagiarism, but I’ll allow it,” murmurs Sherlock. “It was a very good speech.” John huffs a laugh as one of Sherlock’s hands drifts up to the back of his neck. He feels himself drifting forward, and as his lips meet the perfect, dusky lips of the world’s only consulting detective, John thinks to himself that if everything they’ve been through has been leading up to this single point – well, he can definitely live with that. 

It’s been three months since that day at Sherrinford. It’s been three months of putting the pieces back together, three months of a gentle dance, of things falling slowly and gracefully into their places; into new places, yes, but, John thinks, new is good. It is what it is – and it’s all fine.

**Author's Note:**

> After over a decade in the ACD fandom, and a BBC fan and ardent Johnlock shipper since day dot, I'm so excited to be posting my first ever fic! Please be kind :-) 
> 
> Notes - my timeline might be a bit out with how old Rosie is? Not sure.


End file.
